


The Whip Hand

by ohlookmywife



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon Divergent, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26363560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlookmywife/pseuds/ohlookmywife
Summary: Everyone needs a friend.
Relationships: Marie Winter/Joan Ferguson, Moan - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	The Whip Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Drago isn't here, Rita isn't here, either Joan was never (spoiler alert) buried at the end of 5, or Marie was there before mid 6.

It’s mid-afternoon and quiet, owing to the vast majority of the women being on work detail.  
Marie is sitting in the common area reading when Joan saunters back to the unit having just mopped out the kitchen between shifts. She walks past her in silence and puts the kettle on, prepares a cup.

“May I join you?” she asks, without waiting for an invitation, sitting her mug on the table top and pulling out a chair.

“It’s a free country.” Marie says, not looking up. 

“Is it?”

They settle into companionable silence – each with a book in hand, Marie with a pad beside her, occasionally scribbling notes.

They’re each seemingly consumed with books in hand, these two friendless outcasts, until Joan notices out of her peripheral vision Marie bringing a single finger up to brush against her mouth, catch between her teeth, weigh heavily against her bottom lip.   
  


When she finds her attention drawn to the point that it shifts her body, she shakes the thought from her head and returns to her poetry, giving Marie the opportunity to raise her eyes ever so slightly, and take in Joan’s profile as she runs a hand up the nape of her neck, smoothing her hair and gripping her ponytail, flipping it gently.   
  


Marie smiles coyly to herself and lowers her eyes. 

Players, the both of them. Two apex predators hyper aware of each other’s deliberate, calculated movements, showing their hands card by card. 

Marie runs her tongue along the edge of her top teeth, “hmmm.” Pouting her lips as she hones in on a section of prose. 

“Something the matter?”

“No, I just… found something that – “ She stops herself. “Where did I put -?”

“Winter, your attorney is here,” an officer calls from the entrance to their unit.

“Damn it,” she says looking up at the clock. “I’m not even –,” she cuts herself off. “Would you keep an eye on this? I shouldn’t be long.” 

Joan nods benignly and returns to her book for a moment, only to tilt her chin to observe Winter’s figure disappear around the corner with the guard.

She gathers Marie’s papers and book, and her own, and places them in her cell, washing her mug in the shared kitchen and trying to scrub the thought of Marie’s full pout from her mind. She dries the cup and brings it back to her cell instead of placing it on the drying rack.

Settling on her bed, she returns to her book, tucking a persistently stray strand of silver behind her right ear, and training her eyes on the page.   
  


She’s scanning the type, but her thoughts are on Marie’s low husky “hmm,” and what elicited it, and what the buzz of those lips might feel like against her neck. She closes her eyes tightly and fixes her jaw, lowers her book as her gaze lands, perturbed, on Marie’s things.

One elegant arm reaches over and, casually flicking her wrist, tosses the book open.   
  


_Not the right page_. She endeavors to try this little performance again, pretending her curiosity isn’t plaguing her, playing that she’s bigger than prying. She’s greater than that, than Vera. 

_Oh, fuck it,_ she thinks, taking the book in both hands after her second failed attempt to casually land on the page that stopped Marie in her tracks.

She’s fervently scanning the page when her cell door pushes open and Marie’s leans her curves against the frame, hands in her pockets.

“’Curiosity killed the cat,’ you know” she says cooly, as Joan looks up, _caught_. 

Joan straightens her posture and closes the book, placing it in an outstretched hand.

“But one of nine lives, then,” Joan says, smiling saccharinely and picking up her own book as if to say: _This conversation has ended. You may go._

“Ah, yes. ‘For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays,’ - which one are you on, then?”

Joan smiles again, this time quickly raising and dropping both eyebrows, _You are dismissed_.

“From what I hear, seems like you must be on one of those ‘last’ ones.”

Joan sets her jaw and meets Marie’s gaze.

“Your papers are there,” she says, pointing to a tidy stack beneath her prison-issued bookshelf.

Marie makes no move.

“May I help you…. Winter?” 

Marie cuts her eyes at Joan before walking across the cell and pulling back the curtain at the window to peer outside. 

Joan watches the door close in her wake and turns to look at Marie gazing wistfully before rolling her eyes and returning to her book.

“My attorney said it would benefit me to make a few friends in here.”

“Oh?” Joan asks, disinterested, licking a finger and turning to the next page in her book.

  
Marie turns from the window and leans against the wall in thought.

“How did I end up here?” she asks no one at all, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment then laughing to herself. “I thought I’d be out of here in 6 months. It’s madness.” 

Joan sighs and puts her book aside, resigning to play therapist, if only she can show how blatantly annoyed she is by this overstep - a stranger, unloading on her, in her own cell.

“And what do you intend to do about iT?”

Marie says nothing, crosses her arms and turns her attention back to the window on the outside world.

Joan straightens her posture and shifts slightly, her eyes discreetly flitting over Marie’s body - her strong forearms folded beneath her breasts, her small frame, the curve of her waist, _her collarbone-_

She’s lost in thought when Marie turns her attention back, “I’m fucked.”

Joan runs her hand along her ponytail, runs her tongue across her top lip as she inhales, runs her hand down her throat and tugs her sweatshirt collar away. “You’re fine - you have resources, you’ll be back on the outside before you know it,” she says definitively and picks her book up yet again in an effort to end the interaction.

“I have enemies in here,” she says, gravely.

  
  
“Welcome to prison.”

Marie looks back out through the slats impeding the view, then to Joan reading.

“We could form an alliance,” she says, as though the thought has only just hit her. 

“I doubt that you would have anything to offer,” Joan says, turning another page.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten the plethora of goodwill and support you are generating from the other women. I’ll see myself out,” she says, moving to go.

“Winter, wait!”

  
  
Marie nearly reaches the door before smirking and turning expectantly.

“Your papers,” Joan says, again gesturing towards the pile again, before dropping her eyes back to her book.

Marie laughs, annoyed. “You really are a piece of work.”

“Thank you.” Joan smiles into her book, fully expecting to hear the door close behind Marie at any moment. 

Instead, Marie creeps altogether too close, leaning into Joan’s space and whispering low, determinedly, “Do not think for one second I am buying your act - ”

Joan inhales dramatically, “and what act would that be?” she asks, letting her mouth hang open, her tongue curling at the back of her bottom teeth.

Marie addresses her mouth directly, “that you are above this, that you are this unmoved -” 

Joan turns her attention back to the page, feigns that she is wounded, as Marie continues, “I’ve seen how you look at me.”

Joan’s heavy lidded eyes land on Marie’s mouth.

“I know what that is,” she husks, so close she can feel Joan’s exhale, “I know that well.”

“And what… do you intend to do about it?” Joan asks, cocking her head and arching a brow, her eyes still fixed. 

Marie climbs into her lap, pushing Joan across the bed and up against the cinderblock, their mouths coming together roughly as Joan’s broad palms find Marie’s ass and set a rhythm, holding her hips - guiding, quickening, deepening. 

Her eyes tightly closed, head resting against cinderblock wall, she bucks up into Marie’s thrusts, sliding her hands around Marie’s waist and burying her face in her breasts. 

Marie’s eyes are wide open, focused on every twitch of her face, every bit of pain and pleasure, agony in defeat and sweet relief. She pulls her waistband back and whispers, taking Joan’s right hand and guiding her, while pinning her left to the mattress top.

  
Joan groans as she slides two fingers into Marie with ease, _good god_. 

  
Marie smiles smugly upon her face - her brow furrowed, her jaw hinging.   
She rides her hand deftly and slowly, watching her with curiosity - the rise and fall of her chest, the perspiration forming on her temples, her lips parted ever so to reveal aimlessly searching tongue, her cheekbones a work of art. _No_ , Marie thinks, _this is purely_ _about_ …   
  


She stops thinking, distracted by a lock of silver hair that has fallen loose, and leans forward, planting a too-tender kiss on Joan’s neck, sinewy and straining. Leaning deeper still, she whispers, “More _.”_

  
An almost imperceptible gasp leaves Joan’s lips as she extends a third finger, and Marie effortlessly takes her in, grinding into Joan’s palm. 

_  
“_ Get out of your head,” she whispers as she **grips** Joan’s fingers, and the smallest of whimpers escapes Joan’s lips. Pleased with herself, a quiet laugh escapes her lips. Not quietly enough.

  
Joan’s eyes flutter open and land on Marie’s lips, noting her focused exhales as she fucks Joan’s fingers.

  
“Something funny?” She asks breathily, too winded from her own, unexpected, pleasure with this stranger in the midday light of her prison cell. Her face twitches - with mirth, not malice.

  
“Not at all,” Marie says, shaking her head too slowly, biting her lip as she bottoms out on Joan’s fingers.

  
“I should hope not,” she says, unpinning her left hand to straighten her posture and pull Marie closer, deeper still, curling her fingers, and watching Marie fall speechless. Joan follows suit, her own mouth falling open in awe as Marie arches her back and fucks her fingers for a few long languid strokes, coming loudly, Joan catching her from nearly falling off the bed, as she dissolves into a fit of delicious, contagious, muffled laughter, and _sweet fucking relief_.

  
There’s a knock at the door, “Ferguson?” The door swings open without waiting for an answer, and Marie slides off Joan’s lap, pulling her track pants up as she falls into the sink, Joan shifting to the edge of the bed in one artful improvised dance. 

  
The officer looks curiously between them as Joan smooths her stray lock of silver behind her ear with the hand that was just inside Marie, mentally cursing herself. 

  
She turns that annoyance outward with a curt, “How may I help you, Officer?”

  
“Governor needs to see you.” 

  
Joan huffs and rises indignantly, smoothing the wrinkles of her trousers and breezing past the sink without washing her hands.

  
She stops at the entrance to her cell and turns back, thinking she’s forgotten something, indifferent to the fact that she's about to stride out of the unit smelling like sex. 

  
Surveying the destruction they’ve wrought, she smirks, “ahh, yes, Winter, don’t forget your papers.”


End file.
